


To hear these sweet marvels I would mine eyes were turned also into ears

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 17th Century, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: A day in London in the 17th century, shopping for books, spreading tiny mischief, being in love
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	To hear these sweet marvels I would mine eyes were turned also into ears

In the 17th century, London roars with life. The river, the boats ferrying people shore to shore, the ships coming in from far places, languages blurring together, so many rich clothes and spices and new foods and cheaper dyes bringing colour. Princes who’ve studied in Lisbon striding through the sailors and merchants and musicians. The theatre, the bears, heads on spikes over the bridges, on every corner someone calling wares, luring you into shops and taverns. A song, a sermon, a dance. Young men, gallants, dressed and perfumed calling up to windows for their friends and drawing swords, laughing, tossing coin between them for ale or a trinket to woo. There’s so much noise and bustle, the streets are alive.

  
  


Aziraphale stands at the open windows, at the top of a house taller than most in Fleet Street, surveying the city. He has his eyes open wide all the way, breathing with the rhythm and quiet of the morning, stretching to see further than he should. He can see the Fleet river, and beyond the great Thames, the stench held at bay by the flowers and herbs, rich scented plants growing around the windows. He can see, to his right, all the way across to the Whitefriars playing house, his lips turning up into a smile as he savours the joy of evenings spent there, the thick heat, people working the crowd - money for sex and money slipped form uncareful pockets. He can see Saint Paul’s, too, all the book sellers. So much print, pages upon pages, plays and poetry and sermons and tracts, politics and myth and medicine, English and Flemish and Italian.

He has made friends with rich men for their oranges, and with merchants who bring figs and grapes, people who come in to the city from far around with pears. There are heavy fruit cakes and light almond cakes, french tarts, quince preserves and apple cream. So many good things to eat. Roast sweet nuts on corners and fruit at the theatre and dinner with so many courses. He leans, naked, among the plants, a cool April breeze making his skin feel soft.

“You have a beautiful-”

Aziraphale waves a hand and the sleepy, low voice from the bed is cut off before it can comment. He stretches out his wings and yawns, takes in Saint Pauls again, wonders if maybe today they can walk that way. It’s consecrated ground but they’ve been selling books there for so long and by now it’s used for market more than worship; it’s indubitably human these days, instead of holy.

“Will you take me to look at the books today?” Aziraphale asks, closing his eyes and listening to the city.

There’s no answer. The silence inside stretches until a rustle of blankets breaks it, soft steps of bare feet, warm arms wrapping around Aziraphale and a face buried in his shoulder, a quick, irritable bite. Aziraphale remembers he borrowed Crowley’s voice and gives it back.

“A beautiful arse but what ruffled feathers,” Crowley says, finishing his thought, fingers running over Aziraphale’s wings to put them to rights.

“I should have kept your words, they’re sweeter on my tongue,” Aziraphale says.

“A holy bu-”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cuts him off. “Do not bring my bottom into your blasphemy!”

Crowley goes soft and sprawling with laughter, draping himself over Aziraphale, somehow managing to caress Aziraphale’s bum as he does.

“I brought you honey, last night,” Crowley says, lips against Aziraphale’s neck. “That might sweeten my tongue.”

“And then we can walk to Saint Paul’s?”

“If we go by the Rainbow for coffee, and return by the Mermaid. I have a little business there,” Crowley says.

“A tempting at an inn, how original,” Aziraphale says. Crowley gives him another bite for his trouble.

“It is rumoured John Hamilton is going to sing there,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale lets himself be drawn away from the window with tall stories about Elizabeth Kate who goes by John Hamilton when he sings, and Mary Frith, and Long Meg of Westminster. Aziraphale promises Crowley the most outrageous gowns and dresses in the brightest new dyes, and Crowley presses kisses to Aziraphale’s binding, flattening his chest to pass as a gentleman in this time and place. They eat apples, sliced and dipped in honey, good bread spread thick with jam, and then walk out into the city, across the Fleet bridge, Aziraphale’s hand in the crook of Crowley’s arm.

The coffee house is busy and Aziraphale loses Crowley for a while, probably causing a little trouble. Or, Aziraphale smiles, listening in from his seat by the window (senses stretching), to seed a plan for a new printing press. A little sedition, a little poetry, pamphlets spreading wild, beautiful stories. Aziraphale keeps himself quiet and the seat across from him clear, his coffee hot and thick, like they had in Constantinople in the 15th century. He observes, listening to the conversations about love, politics, theatre, until Crowley comes and sprawls, head back, looking at Aziraphale under his eye-glasses. Aziraphale looks back, repressing the ever-nagging worry that eats at his stomach over what might happen to Crowley if they should be caught. The coffee sits a little uncertainly afterall. Crowley starts to talk, idly, hands gesturing widely. He pauses, head tilted to the side.

“You alright?” he asks, softer, sitting forward.

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale assures, drinking the last of his coffee. “Perhaps we could walk, though?”

Crowley shrugs and gets up, pausing just outside to offer Aziraphale his arm again. Aziraphale rubs a hand over his stomach, hiding a wince at the nausea, used to it but a little tired of it. Crowley makes an impatient noise, annoyed at being denied Aziraphale's arm, and swaggers over to talk to a group of old men and women; old soldiers, sat drinking ale. Aziraphale waits, blinking in the pale sunshine, trying to turn his thoughts away from his worry and toward the books he might find today. He’s been looking for an edition of Ludovic Lloyd’s _The Pilgrimage of Princes._ Sometimes it’s called _The Marrow of History._ The words are nice to say. Calming. Humans have so much imagination, and words conjure it all up like magic.

“You’re smiling again,” Crowley murmurs, suddenly close, lips right by Aziraphale’s ear.

This time Aziraphale offers Crowley an arm, and he accepts it. They walk slowly, taking in the people and the events around them: an argument; someone selling little button-holes with soft-coloured flowers, scented bundles of herbs; a man on a corner reciting a tract against theatricals. Aziraphale snort, riled by the last, and Crowley untucks his hand to reach around Aziraphale’s shoulder, laughing, keeping him from arguing. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose and Crowley untangles them, patting Aziraphale’s arm, jogging back to buy him a button-hole.

The market at St Paul’s spreads out from the church, unholy words sinking into the earth so Crowley barely shivers as Aziraphale pulls him gently through the stalls and sellers. He goes willingly enough, dropping back only sometimes and Aziraphale suspects he’s doing that in order to watch. He hums quietly, hand resting against Aziraphale’s back, smiling warmly whenever Aziraphale’s enthusiasm spills out. The worry is chased away, remaining only as a slightly sick and dizzy feeling when he turns too fast between books, and a slight blurring of the words he’s trying to read. Perhaps he needs glasses, like Crowley.

He buys a few things, some he’s been looking for and some he hasn’t, a bible he finds a mistype in that he hasn’t seen before, a collection of John Lyly’s plays that includes one he hasn’t read or seen, something new by Ben Johnson. He gives them all to Crowley to carry, piling each new book or folio or pamphlet in his arms before heading to the next seller. He cries out happily, a French merchant is here who he hasn’t seen in a while, he hurries over and greets the woman politely before rummaging through what she’s brought, Crowley growing bored and lagging behind. Aziraphale finds a copy of Montaigne’s _Travel Journals_ , he’s only seen it in translation so far. He plucks it up.

“Ow!” he pulls his hand back, cradling it to his chest, stung. Crowley materialises once more at his elbow. Aziraphale firms his lips and looks upward. “That’s just judgemental.”

He takes the book, ignores the tingling and burning sensation, pays the merchant, and puts it firmly atop the rest of his purchases. Crowley’s question dies on his tongue and he rolls his eyes, relaxing.

“Honestly, angel, you’ll have to learn to shed your skin, the rate you keep burning your fingers on books,” Crowley says, managing to stick his elbow out even over-loaded as he is, and Aziraphale slips his hand in.

“You can teach me the trick of it,” Aziraphale says, unconcerned. “I promised you the Mermaid, but I think we’d better head back to my rooms and drop these, first.”

“No. You’ll only sit down and start reading, and then we’ll never get out,” Crowley says, a whine in his voice.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale says, thinking of the way his vision is still sparking, eyes focussing out of synchronicity. A thread of anxiety works its way lose and he leans a little into Crowley. “I promise.”

“You’ve promised before,” Crowley grumbles, but heads toward the house Aziraphale lives at the top of, anyway. He waits until they’re nearly back to prove he pays far more attention to Aziraphale than he should, saying “you can sit in the window with my plants, that always makes you feel better.”

The worry creeps upward, tightening Aziraphale’s grip on Crowley’s arm. They head up the wonky, creaking stairs and Aziraphale takes his things, dumping them all on the desk before doing as Crowley suggests and sitting on the window ledge. He tucks one knee up, shifting until he’s more comfortable, his stomach settling as he’s still and quiet for a moment. He rests his head against the window frame and sighs as Crowley’s hand rubs across his shoulders.

“You worry too much,” Crowley says. “What is it, anyway? Today is a good day.”

Aziraphale shrugs, glad that this, at least, he’s managed to keep to himself. The thoughts that spin wildly around and around, that Aziraphale isn’t doing it right, that he’s not doing enough, that he should be able to help, the gnawing and terrifying fear that it is _wrong._ The suffering, the minimal succour he’s allowed to offer, the good and beauty he sees in people’s curiosity and love and thirst for knowledge that Heaven frowns on. The thought that Crowley might be a demon but he seems to share Aziraphale’s joy in this, humanity’s weird and wonderful explorations of the world. That Crowley, for all the misdeeds and trouble he causes (or Aziraphale now causes, as per the Agreement), never truly _hurts_ anyone. Not, Aziraphale can’t help the thought, not the way he saw Jesus get hurt. A choice, to suffer in order that people might be forgiven. A choice Heaven didn’t understand but Aziraphale can feel all the way down to his bones. People deserve forgiveness. There’s the thought, too, that _Crowley_ deserves forgiveness. Not something he should ever, ever voice.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

He’s further away than Aziraphale expects and he blinks, shaking himself, looking around as the world comes back into focus. His wings are open, filling the room, spilling across the floor and unlike this morning keeping Crowley away. He shakes himself again and folds them up and away, tucks his worrisome thoughts back away with them, and focuses on the city, the room, Crowley, green growing things, the birds outside, the bugs in the leaves. Living things.

“Sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, turning to Crowley. “Just a couple of stray thoughts. Nothing to worry about.”

Crowley comes back over, fingers running gently over Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale allows it, lets his face be lifted for a kiss, lets himself smile. Lets it feel good, lets himself breathe, lets himself stand and wrap his arms around Crowley and cradle his head and kiss him again. It’s fine, there will be time later for the rest of it. For now, they are safe, here in his garret, high above things and far from Heaven or Hell’s gaze. For the moment. Hopefully for a long while.

**Author's Note:**

> Apple cream: http://www.godecookery.com/engrec/engrec24.htm
> 
> Title is from John Lyly's 'Gallathea'


End file.
